


Things Left Unspoken

by Bridenore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, First Time, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridenore/pseuds/Bridenore
Summary: I was looking for an excuse to leave the place when I spotted them. Six small glass vials were proudly displayed behind the counter. The liquid inside was cobalt blue. I had seen one of these in Draco Malfoy’s hand eighteen months ago. -- This fic was written in 2012 for the Harry/Draco Career Fair.





	Things Left Unspoken

 

 

“Tell me about eighth year,” Draco sometimes asks me, through his fever addled brain. We’ve gone through those stories time and time again. He is trying to cling to something real and I can only oblige him. He rests his head on my lap and lets me run my fingers through his hair. It’s all I ask for.   
  


I tell him how much I cared about him, even back then. I tell him how my feelings for him somehow shifted between the moment I cast Sectumsempra and the moment I saw him huddled with his family in the Great Hall.   
  


I tell him about keeping that change of heart to myself at the time. Yet, Ron and Hermione always suspected. They exchanged knowing glances every time I mentioned his name. They knew me only too well. When your childhood enemy is sent to trial for war crimes, you cannot throw a fit in front of your two best friends without giving yourself away. Spending eighth year staring at his dot on the Marauder’s map might also have cued them in.  
  


I repeat Hermione’s words. “Talk to him,” she said one night. She never mentioned names. She didn’t need to. She tried to pry the map away from my clingy fingers. “Just talk to him like normal people do.”   
  


I tell him how I wished I could. I had already tried to approach him, but my notorious Gryffindor courage had failed me every time. And so I simply took the map back from Hermione. When I finally looked up, there was pity in her eyes. Ron was staring at me from above her shoulder, a frown of concentration on his face.   
  


I tell Draco I was not particularly surprised when Ron came to me few days later. He told me he wouldn’t mind if I were gay. There was a question mark in his voice, but I shrugged it off. I told Ron I wouldn’t mind either if he were. Yet Hermione might not see things the same way. He left it at that. He was the best friend a bloke could have.  
  


The truth is that I was confused. I was not ready to put a label on myself. I always thought I liked girls. I always thought I would get married and have children. Like my parents. Yet, a few weeks after the war, there was a talk that should have ended up with a kiss, but ended up with me breaking up with Ginny. Feelings entertained for a certain blond might have come into consideration.  
  


Telling Draco any of that would be suicide if he were in his right mind. Normally, he would have called me deranged and he would have a few derogatory comments about me and my friends. He might even have ordered me to stay away from him. Yet these days, he just doesn’t care. He simply listens to me. He says he likes the sound of my voice. He says the familiar stories soothe him. He says he needs them like I need him.  
  


“Tell me again about the leaving feast,” Draco only asks. “Tell me about my mother.”  
  


And so, I tell him how we all left Hogwarts a few weeks after my conversation with Ron. Eighth year was over, and no madman had tried to kill me. We were all wearing fancy robes, waiting in the Great Hall for the closing speech. Ron and Hermione were talking about our imminent move into Grimmauld Place, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was certain that anything Hermione planned would be fine with me. I was solely focused on him, on how tired he looked. I was still staring when we reached King’s Cross a few hours later. His mother was fussing over him, protective as always. I wished she could fuss over me as well. It would have been nice.  
  


Sometimes Draco realises I am leaving something out, in a sudden bout of lucidity. “You knew that I wasn’t quite all right, even back then?” he asks.  
  


He’s right and I can only tell him that I knew. By Easter, dark circles marred his features and there was a tremor in his hands. It started gradually, with small incremental changes no one would really pay attention to. He splashed some pumping juice one morning while bringing his glass to his lips and I remember thinking that he didn't used to be clumsy. Draco Malfoy used to have long agile fingers made for precise potion work.   
  


I tell him how I then started noticing more. I was surprised no one commented on what was plain to see. Then again, with most of his friends gone from school, no one paid much attention to him. I started worrying. I tried to talk to Madame Pomfrey, but she shook her head and told me she couldn’t discuss other students with me. I would have talked with Ron and Hermione, but I didn’t want to fuel their assumptions about my burgeoning feelings.  
  


I tell him how I spent a few lonely nights pouring over heavy healing books in the library, trying to understand. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about magical maladies and afflictions. Scrofungulus held no more secrets from me. Yet the answers I was looking for kept evading me. When I pulled the last healing book from the shelves, I knew that my quest was over.   
  


***

  
  
I particularly enjoy when Draco asks about our short time together. I revel in the memory of those few glorious hours. It’s all he ever gave me.   
  


I remind him of how we ran into each other one night in a Muggle gay bar, not too far away from Diagon Alley. It was my first foray into the club scene and I was finally ready to experiment. Seeing his ease on the dance floor, I suspected he was a regular. He seemed less intimidating in these surroundings. I felt brave and tapped on his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t question my presence. He took my hand and dragged me into the crowd. It was liberating.   
  


After a few songs, we ended up drinking at the bar. Conversation was a bit strained; there were far too many subjects we needed to tiptoe around. The constant trembling of his hands was one of them. We had a good time anyway. That night, I let him fuck me.   
  


I tell him how he started divesting me of my clothes, between hungry kisses, as soon as we Apparated into my house. I mumbled something about Ron and Hermione sometimes being awake this late. The thought horrified him and I suggested the haven of my room. With pants and trousers undone, I stumbled through the house, cock bobbing around. I can still hear his derisive snort.   
  


I tell him how he commented on the mess, on the dirty clothes lying around. I tell him how I shrugged and reached for his belt. I tell him how he swatted my hand away, saying that he wouldn’t last. He wanted this too much. He avidly bent me over the dresser, where I could only graze upon our reflection in the mirror. His lips were brushing my shoulder and his hair was in disarray. His hands were everywhere and I was mesmerised.  
  


I tell him that profanities came out of his mouth when lube stained the shirt he never took the time to pull off. It brought me down to earth. Faced with what was about to happen, I became nervous. I was a virgin, after all. Draco was drunk and I doubt he noticed my sudden awkwardness. I gave my deflating cock a few tugs to give me courage. His hand quickly joined mine and I forgot my anxieties. There were two fingers in my ass before I even knew it.  
  


I tell him of the intense pain I still felt when he finally breached me. He hadn’t spent enough time preparing me, thinking I was used to quick fumbles. Yet, I didn’t complain. By that point, I was mad with desire. When he brushed my prostate over and over again, all of my wishes were finally granted. His fingers were bruising my hips and sweat was rolling down my back. He bit my shoulder when he came and I was in heaven.  
  


“We should do it again,” he comments every time my story reaches that point. Voicing an opinion would be beyond futile. I don’t need to remind him of his physical and mental state. Healers had mentioned erectile dysfunction among the various drawbacks of his condition.  
  


There are other things I keep for myself. I don’t want to add to his burden. However, I can’t forget the way Draco’s breath hitched after he climaxed. I can’t forget the horror I felt while he stumbled through the room and searched for a glass vial in his coat pocket. The liquid inside was cobalt blue. He opened the cork and swallowed a few drops. He closed his eyes and whimpered. It twisted my guts. I knew none of this was normal and I asked him if he was okay.  
  


“I’m anything but okay, Potter,” he answered. “I’m a twenty years old Death Eater. My father is in prison and most of our assets have been seized by the Ministry. I get looked upon everywhere I go. The only job I can get is ten floors below Gringotts, where no clients will ever see me. And then, there is this shit I have to take.” He shook his head and he threw the vial on the wall where it left a stain. It’s still there and it’s all I can see every morning when I wake up.  
  


I didn’t press the matter. Maybe I should have. I always wondered what would have happened if I had known sooner. People tell me it had already been too late. They say the first intake had sealed his fate. They say there was nothing more that I could have done. I don’t like listening to them.   
  


When I woke up the next day, Draco was already gone. I waited and waited, but he never tried to contact me. I ended up with a broken heart. I’m still mending the pieces.  
  


***

  
  
“Tell me again about your job,” Draco often asks. He focuses on my life after the war, trying to forget his problems. I don’t point out how the two are closely related, but it would be obvious to anyone listening closely to my stories.  
  


I tell him how difficult it was for me once we were out of Hogwarts. After the war, becoming an Auror didn’t have the appeal it once had. Kingsley insisted, but I couldn’t picture myself chasing dark wizards forever. Without a clear goal in mind, I felt a bit lost. I never had a backup plan.   
  


Everyone else seemed to know what they wanted to do with their lives. Ron was helping George with the shop. Hermione was working for the Ministry as a liaison with the Muggle world. Ginny was playing with the Harpies and Luna was travelling the world. The knowledge that I was the only indecisive person around was slowly killing me. I spent most days torturing myself, lounging around in my boxers and socks. However, I didn’t lift a finger to change a thing. McGonagall tried to recruit me, but I didn’t feel like being gnawed upon by star struck students. It was pathetic and I was fully aware of it.   
  


Then, there was our fateful night together. The worrying looks Ron and Hermione sent me became too much to bear. I tried pretending everything was fine. I tried to forget all about Draco. I tried to forget about the strange potion he seemed addicted to. I tried not to care. I thought it would be easy. It was anything but.  
  


“But what about your job,” Draco always insists by that point. He thinks I am spending too much time on that first year fresh out of Hogwarts. It makes me smile.  
  


I tell him how I ended up drinking Butterbeer one night with Neville. He was working for an Apothecary, growing all sorts of things needed for potions. He told me, between two sips, that his boss needed someone overseas to track some rare potion ingredients. I needed an escape and Neville provided one. The thought of leaving the country – of getting as far away from Draco Malfoy as I possibly could – appealed to me. I had spent too many nights worrying about his loneliness, his uncertain future and his health.  
  


I lived the ex-pat life for a while. Days were spent working. Nights were spent drinking. Sometimes, I switched things around. I skipped work and got inebriated earlier. Those days generally ended up in back alleys, fucking blond strangers. I often regretted those indiscretions. They never were as satisfying as the real deal. Draco had ruined me for anyone else. Sometimes at night, I could still feel his hot breath on my neck and his long fingers in my ass. I wished I could have it all back.  
  


I lied to my friends. I sent a few postcards from here and there. I wrote of the great life I had. I praised my job; I thanked Neville again and again. The truth is that I had been slowing destroying myself. I received a letter from my boss one day, thanking me for a rare find and offering me a raise. I had no recollection of ever finding or sending the supplies.   
  


“You were fucked up,” Draco comments. It is the truth, and I don’t deny it. I’m not particularly proud of those days, but I wouldn’t change the past. My life abroad shaped me into the person I am today.  
  


“But you came back,” Draco goes on and I can only smile, hearing the relief lacing his voice. It’s his favourite part of the story. I shouldn’t read too much into it, but I do anyway.  
  


“Yes, I came back.”   
  


Again, I am leaving a few things out.   
  


Reality caught up with me one warm spring day, in Madrid. There was this dingy potion shop my boss had been dying for me to get into. It was by invitation-only and I realised why the moment I finally stepped through the door. They were specialised in endangered species and other illegal products. I thought of Voldemort and of my beliefs. I remembered my adolescent dream of becoming an Auror. There were things I simply couldn’t do.   
  


I was looking for an excuse to leave the place when I spotted them. Six small glass vials were proudly displayed behind the counter. The liquid inside was cobalt blue. I had seen one of these in Draco Malfoy’s hand eighteen months ago.   
  


“Interested in the Drink of Despair?” the seller asked me, raising a brow.   
  


I nodded.  
  


Vial in hand, I searched and searched the face of the earth, looking for more information on the Drink of Despair. I found the answers I had been looking for in Cairo and what I learned horrified me. The strange addictive potion slowly destroyed the nervous system. I came back home, running.  
  


I asked around, but Draco hadn’t been seen in weeks. He had quit his job with Gringotts a few months prior, and I didn’t learn much from a visit to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was tight-lipped, but I noticed the worry in her eyes. She didn’t know where her son was either. When I turned around to leave, she grabbed my hand and squeezed. It was all I needed to hear her silent plea.  
  


After countless sleepless nights, I finally found him in a gutter in Knockturn Alley. He was lying in a pool of his own blood, a silver knife in his right hand and a deep cut on his left wrist, inches from the faded Dark Mark. A few healing charms sealed the wound.  
  


“It’s you,” he whispered after slowly opening his eyes. I lifted him up in my arms and the knife fell to the ground. I didn’t bother to pick it up.  
  


“Where are you taking me?” Draco mumbled.  
  


“Home,” I answered, without missing a beat.  
  


***

  
  
Sometimes, Hermione pokes her head through the door. “It failed,” she says. Draco becomes agitated whenever she does. Everyone’s presence but mine seems to make him uneasy these days. I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder and scowl, even if I can see the sorrow in Hermione’s eyes and I know that she is doing all she can.   
  


“It has to work,” I simply state. “You know it has to.”  
  


Draco often asks about her, once she’s gone. I could lie to him, I could tell him she was only passing by. I don’t. It’s the one thing I would never hide from him. I can’t dismiss the hours spent in the basement kitchen, trying to find the solution to this whole thing. Healers may have given up on Draco, but my friends have not. Narcissa, Ron, Hermione, Neville and Luna are working night and day on an antidote. Snape’s portrait was even brought from Hogwarts.   
  


And so I tell him of their courage, of their determination and of their love. I tell him how I wish I could help them, but I’ve always been clueless with potions. I tell him how useless it makes me feel. This is not something I can beat out of him. Expelliarmus won’t get me anywhere. I can’t help but curse Voldemort for this. Feeding addictive experimental potions to those who displeased him had been a favourite game of his. It doesn’t feel like a game for those left with the mess.  
  


“Don’t fret. None of this is your fault,” Draco says one day.   
  


The words are surprisingly coherent and I take the time to look at him. Sitting at the other end of the couch, he appears lost in clothes much too big for his shrinking frame. His skin is pasty and his hair is matted. However, the grey eyes are clear and when he nods at me; I know that for the first time in weeks, he’s fully here with me.   
  


“I can’t help but fret,” I say, squeezing his left foot. “I wish I could do more.”  
  


Draco sighs and sinks further into the couch. I lean over and rearrange the blankets around him. He closes his eyes. “I wanted to avoid this.” His voice is a mere whisper.  
  


“Is that why you left that night?” There is a heavy lump in my throat and I can barely get the words out. I’ve been wondering for weeks. I’ve been thinking of our brief time together. I’ve been thinking of the interest he’s been showing toward that particular night and I’ve come to believe that Draco’s sudden departure might have been hiding something more. Something he hadn’t wanted me to question.  
  


He doesn’t answer and I’ll probably never know. He merely repeats his wish to be left alone. “You should have left me in Knockturn.”  
  


I could never have left him there. The mere thought pains me. He peaks at me through heavy eyelids and I offer him a sad smile. “You know me, always picking up strays.”  
  


“You should go back to your life.” I know he means well, but the words hurt as hell. I can’t let him go. Losing my right arm might be easier. “I’m dying,” he insists. “I’ve known for years.”  
  


“You’re still here.”  
  


I take hold of his trembling hand and for long minutes, we stare at each other. I wish my eyes could convey the feelings I have for him. He sighs, as if accepting defeat, but I know. I know he doesn’t truly want to be left alone. He has sought my voice through countless hours of suffering.   
  


There might not be much time left. We might not be able to reverse the damage from the Drink of Despair, but I’ll stay with him until the end, whether it comes today or in sixty years. He might believe he isn’t worth my time, but I know better. He might or might not love me, but it doesn’t matter. There will always be a place in my life and my heart for Draco Malfoy.

 

 


End file.
